


Observations of Algonkian Island Aquatic Nuts In Their Natural Habitat

by ignipes



Category: I Want To Go Home! - Korman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-23
Updated: 2005-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beaver watches. The beaver waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observations of Algonkian Island Aquatic Nuts In Their Natural Habitat

The beaver was triumphant. His new dam had succeeded beyond his grandest expectations. For one brief, glorious day, he had created a pond large enough to humble and trap the humans who so persistently threatened his home. Even when the water retreated, the humans remained in their clearing and their fields, the sound of their tools and activity a distant murmur. The woods were peaceful and quiet once again.

With his dam and pond in place, the beaver knew it was time to build his lodge. He planned carefully and began to collect the logs and branches he needed. He was dragging a peculiar hollow branch toward the pond when the humans returned. He heard their footsteps and voices long before he saw them. Trembling with fear, the beaver abandoned the strange branch and hurried toward the safety of his pond. Just before he slipped into the water, he heard a terrifying human cry.

"Hey! That's my guitar!"

-

They finished the raft four days after visiting day. The next morning, just before five o'clock, Mike felt a gentle nudge on the bottom of his mattress. He sat up immediately and whispered, "I'm awake."

Nobody in Cabin 13 stirred as Rudy and Mike opened the door and slipped out into the cool, dark morning. They hurried through the camp, around the piles of building materials, past the freshly-groomed fields, toward the woods. At the edge of the forest, Rudy paused and glanced back at the newly-repaired camp.

"Old Elias," he observed quietly, "would be very proud of how quickly his clones recover from natural disasters."

Mike snickered as they ducked into the trees. Mike hadn't been any farther into the woods than the garbage dump at night, but he followed Rudy without hesitation. For some reason, the fact that even Rudy now admitted that their escapes were merely a game made sneaking through the woods at five in the morning far more enjoyable for Mike. It didn't make any sense but, then, nothing about this summer did. He rather liked it that way.

The raft was built from salvaged logs, borrowed lumber, the slats from Harold Greene's bed, all of it held together by the climbing ropes from the obstacle course--swiftly and expertly knotted by Rudy's deft hands. It was hidden near the far side of the island, buried in a hollow and covered with leaves and branches. They found it and uncovered it easily, then carried the raft and their two handmade paddles toward the lake. ("What are you making?" Pierre had asked, as they were planing the paddles and painting them with cheerful blue and white strips in arts and crafts two days ago. "Braces for Mr. Warden's legs," Rudy had replied. Pierre simply shook his head, smiling, and walked away.)

On the gravelly shore, they set the raft at the edge of the water.

"Farewell, Alcatraz," Rudy said, saluting the island solemnly. "I will not miss you or your inhabitants."

"Or your food," Mike added, mimicking the salute.

"Especially not the food," Rudy agreed. He splashed a few feet in the water and dragged the raft away from the shore. "Come, First Mate Webster, it is time to launch the _H.M.S. Elias Warden_. I don't suppose you remembered the bottle of champagne?"

Mike scrambled onto the raft beside Rudy. "I forgot the champagne," he admitted sadly. The raft wobbled unsteadily. Mike froze and grabbed at the ropes holding the raft together, suddenly wary of his balance.

Rudy poked him with the paddle. "The _H.M.S. Elias Warden_ is a state-of-the-art seagoing vessel, First Mate Webster, but it won't power itself. Row! Or we will never know the taste of freedom."

Cautiously, Mike obeyed, watching for a moment to match his own motions with Rudy's (powerful, flawless, graceful) strokes. The shore of the lake seemed very, very far from the island, and already golden rays of sunlight were filtering through the trees. Despite the chill, Mike was soon sweating with exertion. Rudy, of course, wasn't even breathing heavily. But they fell into a rhythm, making steady progress across the lake.

Then Mike felt the water soaking through his jeans.

He glanced down.

"Uh, Rudy?"

"Do you have a report to make, First Mate Webster?"

"The raft is sinking."

Rudy stopping rowing and looked down. "Oh. So it is." The water-logged raft listed dangerously, and the knotted ropes began to loosen. "And here we are, without our bailing bucket."

"Bailing bucket!" Mike shouted, looking around desperately. "We're sinking!"

"_We_ are not sinking," Rudy disagreed patiently. "The raft is sinking. We, unlike the raft, know how to swim." He looked to the left and right, toward the island and the distant mainland shore, and sighed. "I suppose Alcatraz is still closer. As much as it pains me, I must give the order to abandon ship." He waited expectantly, looking at Mike, then snapped, "What are you waiting for? Go!"

Before Mike could react, the raft buckled in the middle, and the logs and lumber came apart. Both boys were plunged into the cold lake amidst of tangle of wood and rope. Coughing, Mike struggled clear of the wreckage and looked around frantically. Kicking free of the floating rope and his heavy shoes, he began to swim toward the island. After a moment he realized that Rudy was swimming beside him, moving at an almost lazy pace, not pulling ahead despite the fact that Mike swam with all the speed and grace of a drunken moose.

Finally, they reached the shore. Mike crawled onto the gravel, gasping and sputtering, then rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. He heard Rudy sit down beside him. For several minutes Mike said nothing, simply catching his breath. Then he pushed himself upright and scowled. "'This is our plan'", he said, mockingly, "'we're going to build a raft. How hard can it be?' Obviously a lot harder than you thought!"

Rudy said nothing, looking out over the lake, his face expressionless.

"But why should that stop you?" Mike went on, not really sure why he was so angry. His heart was still pounding; he could see the remains of the raft--and his shoes--bobbing peacefully on the water. "Rudy Miller has another brilliant idea, how could it go wrong? Guess they don't give out trophies in raft-building, do they!"

Rudy looked at him then, and for one brief, confusing second Mike was certain that Rudy was going to shout back at him. But that flash of--what was it? anger? chagrin? embarrassment?--was gone, and Rudy said evenly, "It seemed very simple in principle."

Mike snorted and said nothing.

After another few minutes, Rudy added quietly, "And it _is_ bad luck to launch a ship without a bottle of champagne."

Biting his lip, Mike did not let himself smile. "You really are a nut," he said.

"Who is more of a nut, the nut or the nut who follows?" Rudy mused philosophically.

Smiling grudgingly, Mike shook his head and brushed the water out of his hair. "That was my only pair of shoes."

"I'm sorry."

Mike blinked. "Well, um, I," he stammered, shrugging awkwardly. He swallowed, then said with as much dignity as he could muster, "I accept your apology."

Rudy was again looking across the lake, but in his profile Mike saw a flicker of something that wasn't quite a smile, but it was close.

Wringing water from his shirt and shivering, Mike said reluctantly, "I guess we should go back." A walk through the chilly woods in wet jeans was less then appealing.

"We might as well dry off first," Rudy said, leaning back on his elbows and closing his eyes. "There's no sense in giving the clones something to gloat about."

"Yeah, I guess," Mike agreed. He leaned back as well, concentrating on the scant sunlight that shone through the trees. "It's not like--"

"_Miller!_"

The single word echoed across the island and soared over the lake. A flock of birds, startled from their happy songs, took flight in a flurry of squawks and beating wings.

Rudy didn't sit up, but he turned to look at Mike, his eyes gleaming. "Listen," he said, in a low, awed voice, "and you will hear the early morning warning cry of the Algonkian Island Wailing Clone."

A second cry rent the morning: "_Miller!_"

"If we are lucky," Rudy went on quietly, "we may catch a glimpse of this dangerous and violent creature in its natural habitat. Do not attempt to approach it, no matter how dim-witted the beasts seems to be. They can be wildly unpredictable."

Mike fell back on ground, laughing.

-

The beaver cowered in the forest. After days of relative quiet and safety, the woods had been invaded again by thundering, stumbling, destructive humans. They had trampled his territory and fallen in his pond and filled the forest with earth-shaking howls and mayhem. Clearly, his dam had not been as effective as he had hoped; the humans showed no sign of abandoning his forest.

Contemplating his broad, smooth pond, the beaver began to plan. There must be a way.

Someday, he promised himself, someday his island would be free of humans, and he would live in peace again.


End file.
